


Maybe You’re Wrong (But You Know It’s All Right)

by Saucery



Series: Spideypool Stories [2]
Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: A Thirty-Something Deadpool, A Twenty-Something Peter, Affection, Age Difference, Ass Play, Banter, Body Worship, Bottom Peter, Boyfriends, Clothed Sex, Clothing Kink, Come Marking, Coming In Pants, Companionable Snark, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Daddy Kink, Dating, Deadpool Being A Pervert, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Embarrassment, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feminization, Fetish Clothing, Filthy, Fluff, Fondling, For Science!, Frottage, Happy Sex, Humor, I Mean D'Oh, Kink Negotiation, Leg Kink, Licking, Love, M/M, Marking, Muscles, Not Canon Compliant, Older Man/Younger Man, Peter Wears Stockings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Possessive Behavior, Power Play, Rimming, Sarcasm, Sassy Peter, Scent Kink, Sexual Experimentation, Shyness, Smut, So Married, Stockings, Strength Kink, Teasing, Top Wade Wilson, Trust Kink, Very Successful Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Wade climbed into the window of Peter’s shitty studio apartment on a Thursday afternoon, the last thing he expected was to find Peter in stockings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe You’re Wrong (But You Know It’s All Right)

**Author's Note:**

> I use the terms “stockings” and “pantyhose” interchangeably in this story. Oh, and the title is from Aerosmith’s [Dude Looks Like A Lady](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nf0oXY4nDxE). Obviously.

* * *

 

When Wade climbed into the window of Peter’s shitty studio apartment on a Thursday afternoon, the last thing he expected was to find Peter in stockings.

Black, sheer, semi-transparent stockings, with skin glimmering through the criss-crossing mesh like the best kind of tease. Or the worst kind of tease.

Wade actually stumbled on his landing. His knees had gone weak.

“Okay,” Wade said, as Peter whirled around, horrified. “Okay. I can deal with this. My _boner_ can deal with this.”

“This—” Peter hunted frantically for his jeans, which he found discarded at the foot of his bed. “This isn’t—”

Wade grabbed Peter’s wrist, preventing him from getting into his jeans. “What isn’t it?” Wade asked, and he’d meant to sound understanding, but the question ended on a growl. He couldn’t help it; Peter was clothed in nothing but those goddamn stockings and his faded Captain America T-shirt, the one that had been Peter’s favorite since he was sixteen, and that therefore scarcely grazed his thighs. Thighs that were charcoal-silky in a subtly shimmering film, and were both slender and muscular. The material just took off from there, following the curves of Peter’s long, graceful legs, like a plane to hell taking off a runway. A plane to hell on which Wade’s dirty little mind had apparently booked every ticket.

“This isn’t me catching your drag bug, Wade. You’re into this stuff. I’m not.”

“You’re literally into ‘this stuff.’ As in, you’re in those stockings.”

“I was just curious!” Peter insisted, half-heartedly struggling to fight off Wade’s grasp. It only caused Wade to stagger against Peter, Wade’s other hand splaying wide on Peter’s now-satiny thigh. For balance. Right. Yeah. Balance. “They just…” Peter went red. “They seemed like webbing. Sorta. I wondered if it’d be like wearing webbing. That’s it.” He glanced away. “Lemme go, already. I gotta get out of these.”

“Or you could leave them on,” Wade suggested, finally managing to mellow the timbre of his words into some semblance of Not A Depraved Animal Out To Tear You To Pieces. Instead, he freed his hand and ran it along the stocking on Peter’s left leg, and then slid it downward, sliding himself down with it, until he was kneeling in front of Peter.

Peter gaped at him like Wade had suggested a shotgun wedding in Las Vegas.

“C’mon,” Wade said, feathering his fingertips across Peter’s breathtakingly sculpted calves. Peter shivered. “You did say you were curious. So why not use this opportunity to conduct research? Purely scientific research. Wouldn’t you love to know what it’s like to sweat in those? To _come_ in those?”

Peter let out a quiet, wounded noise. “You fucking asshole,” he said.

“A prediction, I hope?”

Peter glared at him.

Wade chuckled and ungloved his hands, tossing the gloves somewhere and returning to cup Peter’s calves with the reverence they demanded. Jesus. Peter jumped off buildings with these. They were strong and virtually stony in their firmness, like Michelangelo’s David. “Turn around, honey,” Wade said, and the growl was reentering his tone, but given that it made Peter flush, he didn’t bother civilizing it. “Won’t you show daddy what a gorgeous ass you have?”

“Oh my god,” Peter mumbled, raising his own hands to hide his face. “Why am I dating you again?”

“Because you’re a good girl and I’m the bad, bad man that incepted you into trying on stockings.”

“It doesn’t count as inception if it isn’t deliberate.”

“Every time I mentioned cross-dressing around you was deliberate,” Wade lied. “I’m a mastermind beyond comprehension.”

Peter snorted. “Even your own?”

“Especially my own.” Hm. Maybe Wade hadn’t been lying, after all.

“It’s not valid research if we don’t have a control experiment.”

“The control is whenever we have sex without you in stockings.” Wade tugged off his mask and tossed it wherever the gloves had gone. He wanted his lips to feel this. “Turn around?”

Peter turned around—slowly, hesitantly—but that suited Wade just fine. Damn, how it suited him, because it showed off the lovely swivel of Peter’s slinky hips and the soft fullness of Peter’s ass gradually rotating into view.

Wade’s heart hammered. At this rate, he was going to have to name it Mjolnir.

“Well?” Peter said after a while, self-consciously, and Wade realized he’d just been sitting there, gazing at Peter’s ass, at the shadowed cleft that was somehow a shade darker than the black clinging to it.

“You have no idea how delicious you are.” Wade cupped that flawless behind in his palms, and then dug his nails into it until Peter hissed. “Like the apple was to motherfucking Eve.”

“Pretty sure Eve didn’t have a mother to fuck.”

“Sass _and_ ass?” Wade smacked it playfully. “Heck, yeah. That’s a gilt-embossed invitation to a downright medieval deflowering.”

“Except for how I’m not a virgin.”

“You’re a virgin to this,” Wade said, and licked a searing stripe along that stocking-clad cleft, so swiftly and suddenly that Peter jolted in surprise. “You’re my innocent girl, putting these evil things on for me, and I’mma eat you out like you deserve.”

“D-don’t call me a girl,” Peter said, “not that there’s anything wrong with— _fuck_ , Wade, just—back off for a second, would you?”

“Nope,” Wade responded cheerfully, tongue dragging wetly against the fabric, stretching it even sheerer over Peter’s flesh. It brought Wade tantalizingly near the summery, spicy taste of Peter’s perspiration and the source of his warmer, earthier musk.

Peter groaned. He hunched forward like he’d been hit. His dresser rattled when his elbows landed on the surface, dislodging miniature circuitboards and patches of stitched lycra that were probably from his latest costume upgrade.

Wade just kept on licking, again and again, until the slightly damp pantyhose he’d started out with had grown soppy and heavy with his saliva, trickling down to where Peter’s balls were snug and tight.

“Holy crap,” Peter said faintly, and Wade looked up to see Peter staring at himself in the dresser’s mirror, shocked and vulnerable and perhaps frightened. That expression shot through Wade like a 0.22 caliber bullet at point-blank range, and Wade shuddered for a moment, completely overwhelmed. “You’re rimming me.”

“No, I ain’t,” Wade slurred against Peter’s ass, reaching around to massage the erection that was trapped in Peter’s stockings. “Not yet. I’m not rimming you tonight, kid. No part of me is touchin’ any part of you without your stockings in-between. You’re either coming in these, or you’re not coming at all.”

Peter cursed. “You’re a sadist.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Wade said happily, because this was the happiest he could recall being. It might be weird, to be so religiously transported by the moisture seeping between the eager press of Peter’s cock and Peter’s stockings, but transported Wade definitely was. He was practically in Narnia.

When he flattened his gun-calluses over the tip of Peter’s thinly-veiled erection and _scraped_ , Peter gasped. When Wade spread Peter’s ass with his thumbs so he could lap teasingly at the taut nylon that didn’t allow him any deeper, Peter shook, then shook harder, like he had a fever.

Peter’s scent changed and became richer. Thicker. From down here, Wade could smell every drop of pre-ejaculate and every hint of sweat, intimate and heady and intoxicating. Peter was whimpering constantly—small, cut-off whimpers that almost made Wade pity him.

It must be frustrating for Peter, Wade reflected, to have a tongue flicking just beyond the rim of his hole, never quite breaching it—a flame that flickered but never burned, a muted spark of heat that threatened to flare into a full-body wildfire but inexplicably didn’t, a friction that scoured and _itched_ —until Peter’s ass was a mindless, rhythmic clenching of muscle, matching the bucking of Peter’s hips.

“Shh,” Wade comforted him. He squeezed Peter’s leaking dick, slip-sloppy through the smooth, porous texture of the stockings, and Peter jerked so violently he briefly escaped Wade’s hold. “Easy. Just relax. Let it happen.”

Peter choked out a hoarse laugh. “You try coming in a pair of cheap stockings you bought at the same corner store you used to buy candy from when you were five years old.”

“Impressively screwed up, but then… there’s me.”

“Are we—” Peter broke off in a gurgle as Wade massaged him roughly, only to resume doggedly as soon as he could breathe. Stubborn, beautiful boy. “Are we about to launch into a sob story contest?”

“Eh, we’ll save that for later. When I have you on the bed and you’re sobbing for real.”

“Promises, pr-promises,” Peter stuttered, and came.

He just came in his stockings, a palpable flood of glorious stickiness under the pressure of Wade’s hand, and in that instant, Wade was tempted to shred the stockings and swallow Peter’s still-twitching cock whole. But he held back, because Peter wasn’t done arching like his spine had all but snapped in two, and Peter scrabbled at the dresser until a fake Calvin Klein perfume tumbled off the edge and shattered. Theatrically.

“Shit,” Peter said tremulously, once he’d finished coming. “That cost seven bucks.”

“I’ll buy you a new bottle,” Wade reassured Peter, palming himself leisurely now that Peter had come.

“No, you won’t. You’re not my sugar daddy.”

“Nah, I’m your salty daddy.” Wade grinned. He got up, casually unzipping his pants and pulling out his dick. When Peter tried angling his head backward to see, Wade clamped a hand on Peter’s nape, like a vise, his voice going steely. “Stay.”

It was as much of an order as a warning, and Peter went _boneless_ , slumping onto the dresser with a moan. Only Peter’s limbs continued to quiver involuntarily from his orgasm, like strings on a plucked harp.

That was—

It was as pornographic as ever, Peter surrendering to him like this. Wade could never be certain of Peter’s surrender—he always thought he had to do more to earn it—but Peter gave it up so sweetly, like he trusted Wade anyway. Like he—

Wade jacked off lazily onto Peter’s stockinged ass, keeping Peter bent over with that grip on the back of Peter’s neck. When he’d blown his load, Wade rubbed it into the stockings just as lazily, with lingering, thorough sweeps of his thumb, until Peter began squirming.

“Ugh, that’s gross,” Peter complained.

“That’s me marking my territory.”

“Like I said. Gross.”

“Don’t make me spank you while I’m at it.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“Uh, no? I was aiming for arousal.”

“…It’s working.”

“Thanks for the feedback. And happy birthday,” Wade said.

“My birthday was four days ago.”

“Whatever. It still counts.” Wade lifted his fingers—tacky with his and Peter’s leavings—up and around to Peter’s mouth, and Peter immediately sucked them in, hot and slick and velveteen. Wade gently stroked Peter’s pliant, obedient tongue with the pads of his fingers. When they were clean, Wade swiped them sideways on Peter’s cheek, cool and slippery with spit, urging Peter up from the dresser.

Peter turned blindly, seeking Wade. They kissed, and it could have taken a few minutes or a few hours, but when Wade drew back, Peter’s eyes were hazy and lost, and his lips were bruised.

Wade shepherded him to the bed, where an unusually wobbly Peter collapsed onto the mattress. Wade admired the picture it made: Peter in black stockings sodden with fresh semen, creamy and whitish at the crotch, with his legs falling open because he couldn’t be bothered closing them. It occurred to Wade that he could fuck Peter like that, just rip off the stockings, hoist Peter’s ankles onto his shoulders and plunge right in, with barely enough lube to ease the way. Peter liked it when it hurt.

“We should do this again,” Wade rasped hungrily. “Not just with the stockings. With lacy panties, too.”

“You can take your lacy panties and shove ’em up your ass,” Peter muttered, flinging his arm across his blushing face. “God, I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Believe it, buddy.”

“ _Buddy?_ You just—and you’re calling me buddy?”

“I’m sorry, would you prefer beloved? Snookums? Cutie-pie?”

“Stop. For the sake of my sanity, stop.”

“Angel. Babe. Cookie. Dearie. Darling—”

Peter yanked him down for another kiss, desperate to silence him. “Shut the hell up and get the lube outta my drawer. I know you wanna fuck me. Might as well prep me during your refractory period.”

“You’re perfect,” Wade murmured, stunned. “I couldn’t have met someone like you if I’d prayed for it.”

“You don’t pray.”

“My point exactly. You’re better than I deserve.”

Peter brow wrinkled in the tiny argumentative frown that meant he was going to waste precious prep time attempting to get Wade to talk about his many issues, so Wade leaned over to brush his mouth against that wrinkle, as lightly as possible, until it melted away.

Wade fumbled one-handed at the bedside table, extracting a dented tube. “How much lube do you need, y’think?”

“Just enough,” Peter said, wrapping his legs—and his stockings—around Wade’s waist.

Wade closed his eyes and sighed. _Perfect_.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)! I also run a blog for my [original gay fiction](http://dominiquefrost.tumblr.com/).


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